Three Chances
by Nalana
Summary: Melena, Fiyero, Trism. Three souls of three different times are faced with circumstances they never dreamed of for themselves. Part of the Wicked Prompts LJ comm. Book!Verse


Disclaimer: I don't own them!

A/N: This is an entry for the wickedprompts community over at LiveJournal. We always love new members!

* * *

One thing Melena never understood was why she couldn't remember her engagement. Such a momentous event, one that had led her to this domestic prison, had no place in her memory. She clearly remembered the flurry of time before and after the event. But for all her effort, she could not recall Frex's actual proposal.

It began with the burning blood that possessed all young souls. It pushed her to a decision that would completely agitate her oh-so-tragically noble parents. She began pressing her affections to the person least likely to meet their approval. The proceeding wedding rush had overwhelmed her, spinning her conscious time into a whirlwind.

Twirling the plain gold ring on her finger, she realized what a fool she had been. She had always had a brash spirit. She was never made for the likes of wifely duties. Surely she should have never been content with Frexspar's cold bed. Yet here she was, three feet from the sleeping form of Elphaba.

Elphaba.

The green one.

The mark of her sins.

Melena's hand crept down to her abdomen. She dreaded to admit it, but she knew another mistake lay within. Why had she ever put herself into this prison? No matter what the details, here she was. Stuck. Despairingly, her head fell into her hands. She wept.

0o0o0o0

Lazy fingers traced along exposed skin, causing a sleeping body to stir. A small smile turned the corner of Fiyero's lips. Elphaba shifted in her sleep toward his touch, but did not wake. He treasured these moments. He loved watching her without the concerns of the world heavy on her brow.

It worried him, partially. For with all the troubles of the world, and the morals he upheld, here he was. He was in a bed in a crumbling hidden home with a woman furthest from being his wife. He felt no remorse.

He had spent time with other men who had carried on with others without their wives' knowledge. Always there was some variance of guilt. Many would hide the bands that bound them in matrimony before carrying on with their affairs. But the Vinkus didn't have such a tradition. Perhaps that was why, as he used his left hand to stroke his lover's emerald skin, he felt none of the sorrow.

Or, maybe, it was because Sarima and himself were never given a choice in their arrangement. There had been numerous candidates for his wife, of course, but there had never been the opportunity for romance. It wasn't believed in. All of the families with eligible daughters were expected to raise them in a manner suiting a princess. His wife was to be molded just as much as he was.

Affection came with time and with children, they were told. His three heirs did make him proud. They were everything that was expected. But it was Elphaba, this awkward rebel, who had taught him how to love.

So, even if there were some ugly mark on his soul because of it, he'd stay in this rickety bed. He'd continue making phantom mazes on emerald parchment. He'd stay in this trap of emotion.

0o0o0o0

He had done everything he could. He had tried his best to convince Candle to come away with him to safety. But all of his efforts were wasted. He couldn't do what Liir had asked of him. Part of his heart ached for his failure. The other part of his twisted organ was glad.

When he had seen her, belly swollen to near bursting, reality had drilled him back into the ground. This girl was the one who had saved Liir's life. She was the one who would carry on his bloodline. She was the one who struggled to come to a balance of understanding of what this AWOL officer meant to her future with the witch's son.

He hated her for it.

He hated her for being the one Liir was returning to. He hated her for her acceptance of his presence, albeit not will (with?) good graces. He hated her for opening a small space in her heart for him. He hated her for her obedience to her fate. But most of all, he hated himself for loathing this woman.

Trism bon Cavalish wasn't a rich man. But his family was an honest one. He was raised in a proper Gilikenese manner. He knew how life should go. He should have returned to his home a proud veteran after another had been trained to succeed him. He should have raised his family's status up within the social service for his decorations within the military. He would have gone back to that life eventually, a proud man, despite the despicable things he felt he was responsible for. He would marry one day, and then leave his accomplishments to his descendants.

He would have, if Liir hadn't come along.

Liir had turned his world upside down. Trism's beliefs were questioned long after he left his position as Prime Menacier. Nothing made sense now. He never wanted to love like this. He never wanted his heart to burn with shame.

But as he headed away from the dilapidated farmhouse, leaving Candle alone once more, he was in misery. The lie he'd tell his family and the government officials of his capture was too well practiced. (Not that it mattered. They'd probably throw him down into the bowels of Southstairs just to be safe anyway. At least his family would be safe, with their son's name raised up as a martyr or forgotten completely by all.) Candle's submissive expression and defiant eyes burned in his memory. The thought of Liir's capture stabbed at his gut.

So he'd run. He'd keep running from these thoughts. He'd hide in hopes of happy endings, of the rise of a new government, of pardons, and a wedding with a toddler at the hip of the bride. He'd dream of sincere eyes falling in his direction as vows were said to different faces as a façade for society. He'd dream of a gold band held close to his heart, safe away from prying eyes. He'd dream and fall away from this bleak and painful reality that engulfed them all.


End file.
